


Reparations

by willowbough



Series: In Loco Parentis [3]
Category: Dominic (TV)
Genre: Alternate POVs, Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbough/pseuds/willowbough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from episode 7. In which Dominic and Beever clear the air between them on the carriage ride back to the academy.</p><p>Thanks to Anthea for starting this scene off. Happy to have you on board.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reparations

Lord Stainton offered his carriage to convey them back to the academy, and much to Nick’s relief, Captain Beever accepted. After the day he’d had, he wasn’t sure he could sit a horse without falling off immediately from sheer exhaustion.

Climbing in, he took the seat opposite the captain. Silence fell as the carriage bowled along the road, each occupant immersed in his own thoughts.

 _Amends to make._ Nick remembered what he’d said in the first moments of his reunion with his guardian, who had appeared genuinely relieved to see him. As relieved as Nick was, to be—at long last—in the company of people he trusted. Amends could wait, Beever had said—and so they had, all through their discussion with Lord Stainton about the most effective way to stop the Brotherhood. But the boy sensed it was best that they not wait indefinitely. Not if he truly wanted to clear the air between Beever and himself, and not if he wanted things to be better in future.

Nick looked down at his hands, taking light, measured breaths in an attempt to steady his nerves. His various bruises still ached, but his head was clear enough. He could hear his father's voice in his mind. _You know you were wrong. Do your duty and admit your fault. Then, take the consequences like a man._

The silence was still intense, but not angry. Nick held on to his courage and conscience together. "Sir?"

He saw Beever look up and dropped his own eyes again; it was easier to speak that way. "I—I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused, sir. I know I was a fool. I should have trusted you. I . . . forgot to conduct myself as an officer, sir."

There was a brief pause.

"Your conduct," Beever said, in his steeliest voice, "was reckless, impetuous, ill-judged, irresponsible, and dangerous in the extreme. Not to mention your lack of any sound strategy in haring off by yourself without a hint of what you might be facing, when you had no knowledge of the size of the opposing forces. Not only were your actions in themselves foolish, but you went about them foolishly, as if you had learned no better in the last two years."

Another pause fell, as if Beever had stopped for breath. Nick wondered if he were facing house arrest until he was nineteen. Or a caning, or a mountain of potatoes to peel, higher than his head.

When the captain spoke again, his voice was as cold and dry as a desert winter's night. "I trust the folly of your actions this past week will never be repeated?"

Nick kept his eyes on the carriage floor, and his voice equally low. "No, sir."

***

As sincere and straightforward an apology as could be wished. And the boy had taken the subsequent reprimand meekly and without complaint. Beever could have spoken more harshly still—three days ago, he might have—but now, with his own mistakes staring him in the face, he found himself disinclined to do so.

_Contrition, not pride. Trust, and not suspicion. Obedience, and not rebellion. With quiet, watchful sense, and not impetuousness…_

_Trust._ It had stung that, after two years under his command, Bulman had not trusted him implicitly, but on reflection, Beever felt he had erred as well. He knew, from those same two years, that the boy was quick, capable, and a bit too self-reliant. If Beever had shared his suspicions: that the murders were more than a random act of highway robbery, that there was an organized gang behind it, searching for something thought to be in the Bulmans' possession. If he had enlisted Dominic from the beginning, instead of trying to keep him ignorant of the dangerous forces he suspected were at work—perhaps the recent disasters could have been avoided.

Not exactly good strategic thinking—or effective guardianship, his internal critic sneered. Indeed, Beever could imagine Charles having harsh words for him on how thoroughly he’d mismanaged things with Charles’s son. _I entrust you with the safety of my only child, and_ this _is how you repay that trust?_

Beever pinched the bridge of his nose. Useless to deny that, between them, he and young Bulman had made enough mistakes to fill a three-volume novel. And as the one so much the elder, his might be the more serious. Not only had he failed to shield his cadet from danger, he had failed to save him from it. The boy had first been rescued by Lucy—and a greater debt Beever had never owed—and then, through some skill and more luck, he had managed to save himself from the church, while Beever still believed him captive at the Eight Bells and had been planning an attack on the place. An attack that would have proved completely useless: Dominic could have been literally dead and buried before Beever and the remaining cadets made their move.

On the other hand, the boy seemed genuinely contrite, and in a tractable frame of mind, dwelling more on the errors he’d made at the start of his misadventures, rather than his successful escape from them. Perhaps, this would be a good place from which they could both move forward.

"Well, then." Beever paused, studying his ward’s bowed head. "You are not the only one to have made…strategic miscalculations. And some mistakes carry their own punishment, as well." In his mind's eye, again he saw the chains set into the rocks, but chose not to elaborate. "For tonight, the assignment of any additional duties can be taken up in the future." In a lower voice, he concluded, "And I want to find their killers as much as you do, Mr. Bulman. Consider that, if you please."

The boy’s eyes flashed up to meet his: blue-grey eyes, like his mother’s, and just as expressive. Beever saw hope there and an understanding that had eluded them both, until this moment. “Yes, sir.”

Scarcely more than a breath, but it spoke volumes. And brought home to Beever just what his gravest mistake might have been in all this: he’d sought to command—and control—the cadet, rather than engage with the grieving son, the boy desperately seeking justice for his murdered parents, wanting answers to this tragedy.

And if he were being strictly honest with himself, it had been because he hadn’t known _how._ Because he’d had no idea what comfort he could offer in the face of such a loss. And because it had been easier to fall back on the habits of a lifetime and focus on his duties and responsibilities instead.

On learning that Bulman had miraculously escaped drowning, he’d vowed to do better. Time to live up to that promise. And in his current chastened mood, the boy would almost certainly work hard to improve their relations as well.

The carriage rattled to a halt, and Beever peered out the window, recognizing the familiar outline of the academy, even in darkness.

"I daresay you're hungry," he remarked, shutting the carriage door after they had both descended.

"Yes, sir!" the boy said, so fervently that Beever felt something like a smile tug at his mouth.

"I too feel the need for sustenance.” He paused, then set a hand on his ward’s shoulder. “Come…Nick. Let us see what your Miss Dearlove has left in the pantry."


End file.
